


They Keep Moving the Cheese

by cupiscent



Category: Cobra Starship, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-06
Updated: 2009-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 20:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupiscent/pseuds/cupiscent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel Saporta used to be hot business property, but no one's sure what he is now. William Beckett's a bright young up-and-comer with a chance to fast-track his career plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Keep Moving the Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> A zillion thanks, hugs and kisses to [](http://airgiodslv.livejournal.com/profile)[**airgiodslv**](http://airgiodslv.livejournal.com/), who's encouraged this beyond the call of duty at every point. The title is a [Spencer Johnson](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_Moved_My_Cheese%3F) reference too delightful to avoid, and the italicised lyric quotes all come from the Something for Kate song "Pinstripe". This is a corporate-businessmen AU, but I know remarkably little about the operation of business, so let's all just cross our fingers and hum along, please? If it helps, think of [this](http://pics.livejournal.com/cupiscent/pic/0005252h) and [this](http://pics.livejournal.com/cupiscent/pic/00053tkp). *G*

_have you set down your course or are you out of control, my dear?  
or are you accidentally part of some involuntary movement here?  
we thought we knew it so well we could do it   
with our arms tied behind our backs and our eyes shut tight.  
i thought i knew it so well i could stop, so i stopped, and i can't,   
can't start again_

*

William couldn't sleep for nerves, so he got up half an hour before his alarm was due to go off, which turned out to be just as well, because he changed his tie five times, his shirt twice and his socks once before he left the apartment.

"Weren't you wearing something else a moment ago?" Christine asked, all tousled blonde hair and bleary eyes and bare legs beneath William's old college sweatshirt and he didn't have time to get distracted this morning.

He fiddled with his half-Windsor, trying to make it sit perfectly. "How do I look?"

"Hot," she slurred, still half asleep, reaching out.

But William ducked out from under her hand, kissing her cheek on the way past. "Wish me luck."

"What for?" she called after him as the door snicked shut behind him.

*

"Do you know Gabriel Saporta?" Mr Wentz had said, at lunch the week before.

That had been the second time that day William had been struck dumb, the first being when Wentz had asked, "Want to join me for lunch?" after having just _popped into William's office_ and offered compliments on last quarter's results. It had taken William a full twenty open-mouthed seconds to respond. William had his Plan, of course he did, but _lunch with the company's brilliant young talent-scouting exec_ wasn't due for another six months.

His speechlessness had been decidedly temporary. He hadn't needed Siska and Mrotek making flabberghasted signals from the bullpen to know that the correct response to being offered a shortcut to your glorious future plans was, "Yes, that'd be great."

Lunch had been at the Washington Club, and when they arrived the third party was already lounging at the table, thumbing through his blackberry with his jacket unbuttoned and his tie half an inch loosened. The third party was Gabriel fucking Saporta.

Yes, William knew Saporta, but he'd figured it for a rhetorical question. Everyone in the city - hell, everyone in the _business_ \- knew him. What everyone was less sure about was what precisely had happened when his company had quietly disintegrated, or where he'd been for most of the winter. (The official story was "desert retreat"; watercooler gossip translated that as "rehab in Arizona".) He'd set up as a consultant, which everyone was assuming was a polite euphemism for feeling out the waters.

Gabriel Saporta had been hot business property, but after whatever had happened back at Midtown, no one was quite sure what he was now.

William had read endless rehashings of it on the insider blogs, and that phrase (_hot business property_) was stuck in his head as Mr Saporta put down his blackberry and turned his dark eyes lazily up to William.

Yes, William knew Saporta.

"He spoke at that young business professionals mixer a couple of years back," William said lightly, glancing at Wentz; when he looked back, Saporta's gaze was still on him, even as he stood up. "I don't know that it constituted actually meeting." Stepping forward, William offered a hand. "William Beckett."

Saporta shook his hand, just a firm handshake, a moment of eye-contact, no power games, and then William was taking his seat at the table as Mr Wentz greeted him with an expansive, "Gabe!"

"Looking good, Pete," Saporta declared, the handshake turning briefly into a hug before he stepped back again. "That a new suit?"

"_Some_ of us have style," Wentz shot back, as they took their seats.

The grinning, cheerful barrage of their catching-up carried them through the appetisers with minimal opportunity for William to be involved, which was absolutely fine with him. He'd done his best to be sparing with the wine, despite it being the best drop he'd had since they'd celebrated Christine's first fulltime teaching appointment. He wasn't sure why he was here, let alone why he was here with _Gabriel Saporta_, but he wanted his wits about him when it came down to it.

Which it did after the entree plates were cleared, Wentz leaned forward and, with the sort of forthright approach that had netted him the youngest ever partnership in the firm, said, "Enough fucking about; Gabe, I'm here to make you an offer."

One of Saporta's eyebrows lifted, his mouth twitching, but he seemed to swallow his first impulse. After a moment, he said simply, "Go on, then."

"We want something new, something different, and I think you can get it for us." William didn't miss the singular pronoun, and he didn't think Saporta had either. Wentz was putting personal stock in this. It was a risk, but the other reason he was the youngest partner in company history was because he had yet to fuck up. "Three month developmental period for an open project, contracted and paid as a consultant, in partnership with one of our brightest young managers." He flicked his wrist in William's direction, and William barely heard him say, "After that, we'll see."

Fuck sparing; William downed a third of his wine in one mouthful. Over the rim of the glass he caught Saporta's eye, an amused glance so incredibly fleeting - Saporta's attention already back on Wentz - that William wondered if he'd imagined it.

"We'll see?" Saporta was repeating, amusement almost entirely covering his scathing tone.

Wentz just leant back in his chair, lifting one shoulder nonchalantly. "You have a better offer, feel free to turn me down." The longer Saporta stayed silent, the wider Wentz's smirk grew.

On the steps of the club afterwards, Saporta squinted consideringly at him (Wentz down on the street already, blackberry against his ear in one hand, lit cigarette in the other) and William was sure he was about to be asked his opinion on this venture. Truth was, he had no idea. He'd been thinking hard, trying to fit this into his Plan. This could be a sterling opportunity to raise his personal profile. It could also be an opportunity to get screwed with his pants on. It depended on what Saporta had in the bag. It depended on what William could wring out of this. Minimise his exposure, maximise his profit; it was a maxim for a reason.

When Saporta said, instead, "That mixer. We wouldn't have met somewhere else as well?" William was so surprised he actually got blindsided by a memory.

"No," he said, blinking it away. "No, don't think so."

*

William was halfway across the foyer to the elevators when he realised he didn't know what floor he was going to. His office - his _team_, working for the next three months without him - was on the twelfth floor, but even at five-to-five on Friday afternoon, HR hadn't been able to give him a straight answer about where Saporta was going to be based.

Ducking out of the stream of traffic, William circled back to the reception counter. A bright-eyed young thing looked up with a big smile, but before William could do any more than knock a knuckle against the counter and offer an apologetic smile of his own, a voice behind him hollered, "Beckett!"

Saporta himself - William actually recognised the voice before he even turned around and saw him coming in the door balancing a cardboard tray of three coffees. (His tie was a deep orange, shirt a pale blue; William was glad he'd not worn the green tie.)

"Morning again, Ross," Saporta said, pausing beside William at the reception counter.

"One of those for me?" the bright-eyed young thing asked.

"Get your own," Saporta told him.

"Bitch." The big smile hadn't shifted even a fraction of an inch.

Saporta laughed, and smacked the back of his free hand against William's arm. "Come on." He led the way back across the foyer, saying back over his shoulder, "They appreciate I need room to work my magic, or maybe they're just worried about the influence I'll have on all you earnest workers--" William looked up, but if there'd been a smirk accompanying that, he'd missed it. "--but anyway, they've given us the flexi space in sub-level one."

They were past the banks of elevators now, and Saporta balanced the tray of coffee on one palm as he reached for the door of the fire stairs. "Sub-level one?" William repeated.

Saporta grinned at him. "The basement," he clarified, with enough ghoulish glee to be an enthusiastic Bela Lugosi impersonation.

One flight of stairs down, there was the bank of elevators, like a ghostly, cramped echo of the foyer above, and the doors at one end leading to the parking levels, and at the other, another door that had been wedged open with a pile of paper. Saporta went striding right in, so William trailed after him. He hadn't even known this was down here, but he wasn't going to be admitting that any time soon. It was a large space, roughly a quarter of an entire floor, he estimated. High windows along the far wall let in a little grey sunlight to play over the scattering of abandoned furniture - three desks pushed against one wall, a big round table, two stacks of generic chairs, a leather desk chair with a tear in the seat and a grey suit jacket thrown over the back, and two whiteboards, one of which was having fire drill instructions cleaned off it by the owner of the suit jacket, a young man with slightly too long brown hair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow.

"Nathaniel Novarro," Saporta said, and the young man turned around - he had a _nose ring_, which made William blink. "My assistant. Yours too, while we're here, if you like. Nate, this is William Beckett."

"Hi," Novarro said.

He had a direct gaze, but William had been sized up by support staff before. He smiled, but his, "Pleased to meet you," was suitably distant.

"Coffee's up," Saporta declared, unnecessarily, as he slid the tray onto the round table. He pulled one cup out, passed it across to Novarro, and held another out towards William. "Sugar, no cream, right?"

That's how William had had his coffee at lunch last week. "Right."

And perhaps this was starting to make sense, Saporta's almost ridiculous level of magnanimity. Just because he was being _nice_ didn't mean William intended to get in the habit of letting him take the lead.

So he picked up his coffee and looked around as Saporta was breaking into his own takeaway cup. Waited until he'd taken a mouthful before he said, "Right, well, I'll bring my stuff down and we'll get settled."

William was halfway out the door when Saporta called after him, "Want to borrow Nate?"

Waving a hand and a smile back into the room, William said, "No, no, you'll need him to get things in order down here."

He took the stairs back up to the lobby. It was actually much easier, and there was no sense in ruining a good exit just because the elevators were feeling touchy about going below the first floor.

*

"You don't work here anymore," Mrotek said, as William walked past his cubicle.

"Don't make us call security," Siska chimed in, as smoothly as though they'd practiced. Maybe they had. Despite the fact that they always delivered on time and in quality, William had never actually seen them doing work. Siska hadn't even turned around from his computer; the minesweeper clock was ticking.

"Ha ha fucking ha," William told them, not slowing down. "Just came for my boxes."

He was throwing the last few items into them (he'd packed most of the things up on Friday) when he saw the shadow from the corner of his eye. He didn't look up to where Mike was leaning in the doorway of his office, and Mike didn't say anything.

They'd pretty much said everything there was to be said last week, hashing it out over again and again - the benefits, the problems, the opportunities and liabilities - after work on the day William had had lunch at the Washington Club. Their table had been a sticky mire of empty beer bottles and husks of lime by the time Siska said, "Oh, yeah, he'd be fucking criminally stupid not to, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." Which seemed to settle things.

Mike had caught William's eye over the forest of bottles, but he hadn't actually said anything until it was just the two of them, sitting in the playground down the block from William's apartment. Mike, who sounded sober right up until the point he passed out, had fielded the phonecall from Christine, but even from where he was lying on the slide, William could hear her on the other end, saying, "What you mean is that he's too drunk to talk to me himself."

After he hung up, Mike said, "Gabriel Saporta."

Dark gaze, enveloping hands, easy chuckle. Gabriel Saporta. William took a deep breath, staring up at the wheeling stars, and said, "I can do this."

He looked up now, and said, "I can do this."

Mike looked at him for a long moment, measuring gaze and arms folded across his chest, then nodded and stepped back.

*

Siska came along to carry William's other box and, William assumed, to check out for himself the state of things in the basement. William wasn't complaining, because there was no one like Sisky for throwing other people off their carefully planned rhythm, and whatever Saporta's was, it was unarguably not in William's best interests to allow it free rein.

The elevator doors pinged open on sub-level one, and Saporta's liquid laughter invaded the space. William led the way out, back into the big space where the whiteboards (now clean) had been arrayed around a sort of conference area comprising the round table and half a dozen chairs. One of the desks had been dragged across to one side, set up with a chair and an elderly bookcase William hadn't even noticed before. He took this opportunity - Saporta and Novarro engaged in some sort of wrestle over a chair - to dump his stuff on that desk. Siska dumped his load a moment later, not even breaking stride to wander about curiously.

Saporta took it pretty well, offering introductions and taking the returning, "Adam Siska, part of Bill's team," with a grin and an unreadable glance over his shoulder at William. "Sorry we're stealing him from you," he shot back.

Siska's grin was more measured, curved like steel. "Well, we know where he is," was all he said.

"So," William said, after the elevator doors closed behind his departing employee, "shall we get this place sorted?"

*

It was Christine's turn to cook, but she'd had to work late again, so dinner was Chinese takeout. Not that William would have noticed if he'd stayed thirty seconds longer before leaving Saporta listing every contact he had in everything ever on the left-hand whiteboard. As it was, he ran into the delivery guy on the stairs.

"It was your new thing today, wasn't it?" Christine said as she shovelled Szechuan pork into two bowls. "Sorry, you know how I am when I'm just up. How did it go?"

"Good, I think," William said, throwing his briefcase onto the armchair and then moving it to the floor before Christine was halfway through saying his name. He shucked his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair as she brought out plates balanced on one arm, open bottle of wine in the other hand until he took it. The glasses were already on the table. "I'm not sure. It's all pretty unorthodox, but it could be an incredible opportunity if it works out. If I play it right."

He poured; she handed him chopsticks; they ate like clockwork. She asked, but he couldn't really explain what he was doing with Saporta. He asked, but the intricacies of fifth grade still made no sense.

*

"Lunch," William declared, as his second day in sub-level one neared midday. "Novarro, you'll excuse us."

Saporta's hand hit the first-floor door of the fire escape as William went to pull it open, the sound of his open palm against the surface echoing in the concreted space. William looked at his fingers splayed against the fading red paint - the long joints, the deceptively narrow palm - and then up the length of Saporta's coated arm, like it was magnetic, like he couldn't fucking resist, to his face. To his mouth, curling up at one corner.

"You know," Saporta said, "your whole posture changes when you give orders."

William looked up, to his eyes. They were of a height, which was rare enough, and William told himself that's why he felt so knotted up, so stiff next to Saporta's loose-limbed lean against the door. "I thought we'd have this conversation over paella," he said, "but if you want to have it here..."

"Not at all." Saporta stepped back, gave a little two-handed fluttery wave. "Carry on giving orders. I'll just watch."

But now it was William who laid his hand against the door, having taken it off the handle. "Fine," he said, "we'll have it here." He leaned weight against the door, shook his hair out of his eyes. "Just to make sure we understand each other from the outset. You're Gabe Saporta and you were cutting deals while I was cramming for finals, but that's not who you are now, and if you think I'll be content to prop you up and take whatever scraps you toss my way, you will be _amazed_ by how thoroughly I can rip the guts out of your opportunity here before I walk away."

Saporta had gone... still. His face had the chill of stone, hands in his trouser pockets and shoulders set. "And you're Pete Wentz's golden protege," he said, quiet in the close space of the firestairs, "but that can change, and if you think I got where I was by sitting back and letting children feather their nests, you're too fucking stupid to be here."

William had, actually, expected nothing else, but being worthy of the threat was a compliment in and of itself. He took his hand off the door, smoothed his lapel. "We're clear, then."

Saporta bared his teeth, not quite a grin. "You mentioned paella?"

"Just a little place I know nearby," William said, and tugged the door open. "After you."

*

They went for lunch, and talked about the Yankees' chances of making the playoffs, and the viability of trading in communication versus industrial tech futures.

William put it on the company card, and Saporta let him.

When they got back, Saporta stopped in the firestairs, hand on the handle of the basement. William had been following his quick pace, made almost as loose-limbed by half a bottle of zinfandel, and skidded to a halt barely a step further up.

Too close by far; when Saporta spoke, William could almost smell the spice on his breath. Could certainly see the glitter in his eyes as he said, "When you swear you do the same thing, with the posture."

Off balance, William thought for half a moment, no longer, about curling his fingers around the lapels of Saporta's charcoal pinstripe suit, about pulling him closer as he teetered, about making him bend with William.

Saporta pulled the door open and stalked out, William catching it swinging shut with his forearm. In their office, Novarro had compiled their whiteboard lists into a database, had the phone pressed against his shoulder while he yelled abuse at the IT department. Half an hour later they had a printer of their own wedged into a corner and a hard copy of the database on each of their desks.

*

Saporta stopped it with the friendly, after that. With William, at least. He still hailed by name whichever bright-eyed young thing was manning building reception, conducted his phone conversations with effusive good humour and usually casual profanity.

William got his own coffee in the morning, and frankly, it tasted better.

They had a whiteboard each, in the no man's land in the centre of the office space, thick with ever-shifting lists of contacts, leads, possibilities. They started out in the morning neat and printed in Novarro's square, capable block capitals, but by the late afternoon they were mires of strike-outs, arrows, asterisks, shorthand and additions. They were looking for something - an angle, an opportunity, Pete Wentz's elusive something new and something different.

By Friday they had a rhythm, meeting each other halfway at five o'clock. Across the round conference table, they'd decipher and translate their own day's work from the arcane diagram the whiteboards had become, further refining the results as Novarro took the notes that would become the following day's hardcopy and starting premise.

Which made it sound a lot more systematic than it actually was. Options for development were relegated to the secondary list - mostly by Saporta's grand decree - only to be resurrected the following day upon receipt of conflicting information. A strong-running contender through Wednesday and Thursday was torn up and thrown out on Friday (literally, Saporta's toss at the trashcan ricocheting around the rim before finally dropping in). There was no single area of commercial activity they were concentrating on, new avenues continually opening even as others closed off.

"I'll know it when I see it," Saporta simply said, with aggravating equilibrium, fingers laced behind his head and sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

"I fucking hope so," William retorted.

Since Saporta was being autocratic, William left after the meeting closed, making it home by half-past six almost every night that week. Christine asked if she should change her after-school commitments, make a habit of seeing him when it was still daylight, but William didn't expect this state of affairs to continue.

It had better not.

*

Tuesday the following week Saporta spent mostly out of the office, and William left before he got back. Novarro gave him an appraising look - the kid didn't seem to ever be suspicious, just curious - when William said, "I have a thing; let's do the meeting in the morning, yeah?" But he didn't say anything.

In the morning, William got there earlier than usual, and brought the coffee, three cups. When Saporta walked in, talking over his shoulder to Novarro, William had his feet up on the central table as he leafed through yesterday's notes. To his credit, Saporta didn't even pause on his way to his own desk to drop his briefcase, shuck his coat. The look Novarro gave William, though, was at least twice as appraising as yesterday's had been.

"Sorry I had to leave early yesterday," William said, pushing the tray across the round table. "Coffee? And I thought we might revisit the secondary list."

Saporta didn't so much as crack a smile, but he did lift his coffee cup a little before he took the first mouthful, almost a salute, watching William with that dark and steady gaze.

They revisited the secondary list. William started working later.

*

The whiteboard lists grew leaner. As Friday afternoon's meeting pushed on towards seven, they crammed both lists together on the one whiteboard (William's) as Saporta's was turned into an idea map. Even with the vagary of the terms, the wobbly connection lines, the abundant question marks, William felt like he was actually looking at progress. Novarro had left at six, contract hours, so they left a note at the top of the board: _don't erase me!_

"It's in here, somewhere," Saporta declared, pushing the cap back on his marker, with the first grin William had seen all week not directed at someone else. "Don't know about you," he continued, tossing the marker spinning onto the table surface, "but I could really use a beer."

 

William, shrugging into his jacket, looked at his watch and opened his mouth. And then hesitated. "I'd really like to," he said, and meant it.

"But?" Saporta said, not sounding surprised as he yanked his own tie loose.

William stopped before he repeated himself; it hardly mattered what Saporta thought. "It's already seven-thirty; I should get home."

Saporta shoved the tie into the pocket of his jacket. "Ah," he said. "Wife?"

"Girlfriend," William corrected, tossing things into his briefcase.

When he glanced up, Saporta was leaning against the central table, fingers braced against it, hips canted. "Better get on then," he said, around a yawn he lifted one hand to cover. "If you're going to be sleeping on the couch because of me, I'd like to have actually done something."

*

That was what William would blame later, when he discovered on Sunday he'd forgotten to bring home documents for the couple he and Christine were having over for dinner that night.

"You've got to be kidding me," Christine said, in her bathrobe and still an hour from ready as William tied his shoelaces. She smelt inviting (and the kitchen smelt _amazing_) but didn't look it, arms folded and face forbidding. "You _promised_, Bill. No more weekends."

"I'm not _going in_," he insisted. "I'm just popping in. I'll pick up the papers, I'll come right back. Hey." He sidled as close as she'd let him in the doorway, pressed a kiss to her just-cleaned cheek. "I'll get that bottle of dessert wine we forgot."

"Tokaji," she said, slightly mollified. "Be back by six."

"Of course."

The building was always eerie on the weekend. The offices themselves could be peaceful enough, sparsely populated and relaxed, but in the year William had been working nearly every weekend, he'd always found the lobby echoing and somehow faintly menacing.

He swiped his card at the basement office door and shoved it open. For a moment, long enough to blurt, "What are you--?" he thought he'd interrupted a burglary in progress, or something just as dire. It took him that long to recognise the tall, dark figure at Saporta's desk (bare feet up, keyboard in lap, chair on two precarious legs) as Saporta himself. William wouldn't have thought jeans and a hoodie could make such a difference.

Saporta blinked at him, letting his chair settle back on all four legs. "Beckett," he said, sounding more bleary than surprised.

"How long have you been here?" William asked, closing the door behind him and hearing the electronic lock catch again.

"I don't..." Saporta started, tilting up an arm so the sleeve slid back, revealing a bare wrist. "No idea. It is still Sunday, right?" He smiled, still seeming a little dazed.

William looked away. "Yeah," he said vaguely. "About five or so." The idea map on the whiteboard had become... complicated. A lot more notes, connections, circlings, arrows. Post-it notes had been stuck on, a few sheets of paper taped to the edges to expand the space. And towards the centre was one of Saporta's scribbled drawings, the sort William had noticed him making when he was on the phone or thinking hard. William went around the table to get close enough to make it out - a stylised airplane, like a kid might draw, except there were sinuous shapes coming out of the windows that it took William a moment to recognise as snakes.

The rest of the board made more sense as William looked it over. In fact, as his gaze meandered through the additions, he started to get an idea of the shape of what was coming together, and it was--

He fumbled in the tray at the bottom of the board, picked up a pen without looking away from the scribblings on the board. "Here," he said, drawing a circle around _synthetic dynamism_ in the top-right corner. "And this." Another circle; the pen he'd picked up was red, standing out against the blue-and-black writing.

When he stepped back, William's shoulder bumped against Saporta, where he'd come to stand close behind. William apologised, shuffled aside, but Saporta didn't even seem to notice, leaning forward to press a finger against the board in another spot, half wiping away the curve of a g. "This as well, I think, but I can't figure out how to reconcile it with the sustainability issue." He stepped back again, shoulder-to-shoulder with William. "And something else that's still missing."

"But it's here," William declared, waving the pen to encompass the board. "It's on here, somewhere. We'll find it."

Saporta grinned, pushing the fingers of one hand into his hair. "I was starting to think this was all just fucking crazy."

William shrugged, adding flames to the drawing before capping his pen and dropping it back onto the tray. "Fucking crazy just means we haven't figured out why or how it makes sense yet."

"Thanks, Confucius." Saporta smacked the back of his hand against William's shoulder, still chuckling as he turned back towards his desk. Leaning over the keyboard, he tapped at it a few times, then said over his shoulder, "Why are you here, anyway?"

William blinked, then said, "Shit, the papers," and strode over to his own desk. The documents were half-hidden under a conference notification on a corner of his desk, and he yanked them out, checking his watch - still plenty of time; great - as he headed back towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, at the door, but as he glanced back he noticed Saporta was zipping up his hoodie, his computer screen in the shut-down process. After a moment's hesitation, William said, "Do you need a lift somewhere?"

Saporta looked up, shoving keys and coins and other jingly things into his pockets. "Nah, I'm good. Meeting someone downtown. Thanks, though."

William nodded. "See you tomorrow," he said again, and left. It would have been more polite to wait, he knew that, but he didn't actually want to end up in the firestairs with Saporta again.

*

By Tuesday the idea map had been redrawn in Novarro's steady penmanship, six core concepts (the three decided ones, and three that seemed most likely to be related to the missing elements) arrayed around the board, with the stupid cartoon of snakes on the burning plane in the centre. William gave Novarro an appraising look of his own over that, but the kid was imperturbable. "I was thinking of maybe getting it on a t-shirt," he said. "Erase it and I'll reformat your harddrive."

Leaving work that night, William bumped into Wentz's pet associate in the lobby, Stump giving him a genial smile and a clap on the shoulder. "Beckett. Hear you're doing some fascinating extra-curricular work. Pete's been talking about how curious he is about how you're getting on."

"It's going great," William declared, beaming even as inside he started to shriek. He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "You'll excuse me, I have to..."

He couldn't think of anything feasible, but Stump was still smiling, saying, "Of course, of course; I'll see you later." He waved as he headed out the revolving doors into the city twilight.

William gave a little wave in return, and then practically tore a seam getting his blackberry out of his pocket. Saporta answered on the fourth ring, as William was swimming against the tide of departing workers back towards the door to the firestairs. William didn't even let him finish saying his name before he gasped, "Tell me you haven't left the building."

There was both confusion and amusement in Saporta's voice as he said, "I haven't quite left the--whoa!"

William got the last part in stereo, as he went barrelling through the firedoor and just about fell over Saporta. He flung his right hand (not holding the blackberry) out to scrabble against the wall as Saporta's left hand (also not holding _his_ blackberry) came flying up to brace against William's shoulder, though he was practically leaning against Saporta, teetering on the step above him. All the air had been pushed out of William's lungs; the breath he drew back in tasted like Saporta. Fuck. Too close.

"Good," he said, a little breathlessly, and just about bounced off the door as he stepped back.

Saporta's hand dropped away from him, but he hadn't stepped back down the stairs. In fact, he took the final step up, crowding William's space on the top landing with a smirk on his face. "What the hell?" he inquired.

"I just ran into Stump in the lobby," William said, and cut off the obviously incoming response of _you just ran into me right here_ by simply continuing, "and he was talking about Wentz being curious about--"

Saporta's face flashed into a frown, and he interrupted, "Patrick Stump?"

William blinked. "You know him?"

"I know everyone." It was dismissed with a faint flap of his hand, the line between Saporta's brows deepening. "And Wentz being curious means?"

"This was our unofficial notification," William said. And perhaps he was wrong, because he'd never been in this situation before, but he'd heard about it, around the watercooler and over the photocopier, a dozen instances where it had happened to other people. The Wentz worked in mysterious ways, and Stump was his prophecy. "Wentz is coming to inspect our progress. We need at least an informal presentation."

"When?" Saporta asked, but he was already turning, leading the way back down the stairs as William followed close behind.

"I'd guess this week," William said. "Thursday, maybe Friday. _Probably_ not tomorrow."

"Probably," Saporta repeated, shooting William a tight smile as he fished out his keycard and let them back into the basement office. "Right."

William dropped his briefcase back beside his desk, and thumbed his blackberry back awake. Christine answered with, "What's up?" just as across the room, William heard Saporta saying, "Nate? Get your ass back here and bring dinner." He found himself smiling as he said, "Sorry, we've sort of had an emergency." He hoped she couldn't hear it in his voice; knew she probably could; tried to stop. "I'm going to be stuck here for a while. I know it's my turn to cook, but..."

"What?" Christine said. (_"You can flex off any day next week, I don't even fucking care,"_ Saporta was saying.) "Shit, again? No, it's fine. I'll be fine. Should I wait up?"

The year he'd worked most weekends he'd been known to work until midnight. Christine had still been in school, then. She hadn't minded so much when he woke her up at one in the morning, sliding his hands up beneath her nightdress. "I don't know how late I'll be," he said. "Leave a light on if you go to bed."

"Right," she said. "Good luck."

As she hung up, Saporta said, "Beckett, Mexican or Thai?"

"Thai," William said. He put his blackberry down, and yanked his tie loose.

*

Wentz leaned back in his chair, pulled out from the round table, and tilted his head, a smirk playing around his mouth. "And how long did that take you to put together?"

"Fifteen minutes," Saporta lied, glib and grinning in front of the whiteboards.

Wentz laughed; from where he'd been sitting on the end of his desk, adding interjections when necessary, William lifted an eyebrow. Saporta lifted both back, and William found himself laughing as well.

"Not bad," Wentz said, standing up again. "Not bad," he repeated, giving William a nod as he rebuttoned his jacket. "It's not _great_, of course, but you've got time yet." His easy smile got that edge to it as he leaned forward to shake Saporta's hand. "Don't waste it."

"Absolutely not," Saporta said, with the sort of sincerity William instictively distrusted. "In fact, we're just going to have a serious thinktank; care to join us?"

"I bet you are," Wentz said, the smirk back again. "_Some_ of us have work to do," was his parting shot as he headed out of the office space.

Saporta looked at William as the door closed behind Wentz. "What?" he said, hands and grin spreading.

William didn't bother trying not to roll his eyes. "Come on, then," he said, standing up.

They went two blocks over to the sports bar William's team had always frequented; the girl behind the bar greeted him with a cheerful smile and a mild scold for not having been in for a few weeks. That was all the excuse Saporta needed, of course, to castigate William as reprehensible. By the time William could drag him off to a table with a jug of beer, he and the girl (Stacey) were on flirtatious first-name basis. By the time they were on their second jug, Novarro had joined them and Saporta was tucking his twenty into the cleavage Stacey had laughingly provided for him to do so.

"Stop that," William demanded, as she walked away, still laughing as she fished it out again. "You can't do that."

"Can," Saporta said, folding up another twenty. "Loosen your tie, I'll do it to you too."

Saporta's own tie, of course, had long been dangling completely loose around his neck, the top two buttons on his shirt undone. Novarro hadn't been wearing a tie all day. All week, actually, if William thought about it. "My tie _is_ loosened," he said.

"An inch does not count," Saporta declared.

"I don't know, depends what you do with it."

Saporta stared; William _made himself_ not blush or look away or even start to wonder why on earth he'd said that; Novarro burst out laughing. It was only a second, really, until Saporta started laughing as well and William could lift his eyebrows, twist his mouth, roll his eyes and reach for the new jug.

With the third jug came a hand on his shoulder, familiar figures looming in his peripheral vision and Siska's voice booming, "What's all this, then?" By that time the place was starting to fill up, afterwork suits and the game on the big screen, but they managed to pilfer sufficient stools for everyone. Siska and Mrotek bracketed Novarro, who looked naively unalarmed by this event; Mike nudged William aside to slide in between him and Saporta.

"So," he said, getting settled, "you're Gabriel Saporta, huh?"

"Gabe!" Saporta declared, with an easy smile.

William cleared his throat and nudged Mike right back. "Beer?" he asked pointedly.

The first round of tequila appeared as though by magic shortly thereafter. William got drunker; the bar got rowdier; the game got more interesting. Mike left after not very long, patting William's shoulder and ignoring the eyeroll he got for it.

"Hey," Saporta said, leaning across the table in the middle of the bottom of the sixth. William had to lean in to hear him properly, elbows careful on the edge of the table. Saporta was brightly drunk, his hair mussed, his mouth quirked. William was watching it as he said, "I don't want to be not bad. I want to be great."

"Yeah," William said, barely a breath, and then he blinked hard. Rallying his thoughts wasn't unlike herding cats, but when he had them all mostly together, one had brought an idea. "I think I know the guy we need to call in," he said, leaning back a little.

"Yeah?" Saporta echoed, sitting up a little straighter, but William was already slipping off his stool, threading into the crowd as he tugged his blackberry out of his pocket, squinting at the screen as he thumbed through options. Saporta caught up to him in the back corridor, catching William's arm as he was raising the blackberry to his ear. "Wait, you sure you want to call _now_?"

William batted his hand away, pulling his phone out of range like they were playing keep-away. "You think I'll remember tomorrow?"

"I'll remind you," Saporta said, but he was grinning even as he reached half-heartedly.

William shoved him off with minimal effort. "It's already ringing," he said, planting one hand in the middle of Saporta's chest as he lifted the blackberry to his ear again.

On the other end of the line, it clicked through to voicemail, and William scowled at Saporta (who looked interested but hardly intimidated; but at least he was no longer struggling) as Travis's greeting played out. After the beep, he said, "Hey man, William here. Got a few ideas to bounce off you, maybe even a project we could use you on. Dying for the magic touch, you know you've been waiting years for me to say that. Give me a call."

He'd relaxed his bracing arm in the concentration of sounding entirely lucid (not that Travis would have cared); when William looked up, Saporta wasn't that far away at all. "Magic touch?" Saporta repeated, tone willing and eager to give the phrase whole new levels of meaning. "Who's the contact?"

"Mine," William said pointedly, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

"Come on, partner," Saporta wheedled, crowding William back.

"Saporta," William said, longsuffering, and realised as his shoulder hit the wall that he should have been reacting differently, should have been pushing him off, maybe making a joke--

"Gabe." A dark smile, far too close. "Didn't I say that already?"

But William wouldn't - _couldn't_ even - let himself think like that, not like this, not _like this_.

So he didn't call him anything, just looked away, back towards the bar and its muted cheering and thumping. He said, "I wonder what time it is. I should really be getting home."

"Right." Saporta backed up a bit, hand off the wall. "The girlfriend."

William would be sleeping on the couch anyway; Christine said when he was drunk he radiated heat, got handsy in his sleep, was impossible to spend the night beside. "Yeah," he said. "The girlfriend."

*

The hangover the next day wasn't bad - and Saporta, of course, showed no signs of anything, breezing out to an extended lunch with "_my_ contacts" - but for some reason the allergies were appalling. William came back early from lunch barely able to see.

"Wow." Novarro said, a blur behind his desk. "You need drugs?"

"Yes," William said, voice thick. "But I've settled for Claritin." He shucked his coat and resisted the ravening urge to rub his eyes. Or scratch them out.

He grabbed his briefcase and negotiated his careful way back out to the men's restroom. Life was a little better with his contacts out. William splashed water on his face, blessedly cool, and found the pair of old glasses he kept in the bottom of his briefcase for just such a fucking occasion. Sometimes he really hated spring, though possibly what he should actually hate was the city.

Novarro looked up as he came back into the office. "That better, four-eyes?"

"Fuck off," William said, with a faint smile. His phone rang as he dropped his briefcase back beside his desk, and William answered it without looking at the caller ID.

"Man," a familiar voice said, "just how drunk _were_ you last night?"

"On a scale of one to college," William answered immediately, "about two and a half. How are you, Travis?"

He was still on the phonecall - Travis could drive a harder bargain than an Italian widow when he felt like it - when Saporta came back, hollering, "Nate!" from the bottom of the stairs. William waved a hand, turning away with the phone pressed to his ear. The final stages were always delicate, and no place to be trying to ignore Saporta. So William just tuned out his voice until he was finished, the deal good as brokered.

"Right," he said, dropping his phone onto his desk as he spun around on his chair. "McCoy is in, or good as; he wants to discuss the details with both of us, something informal, he suggested golf which I suppose isn't..." Saporta was staring at him like... Well, William didn't even know like what. Like he'd seen a ghost, like William had done something outrageous, and he hadn't thought golf was _that_ bad. He trailed off, frowned, tucked a loose lock of hair back behind his ear (time for another haircut) in the process bumping his glasses--

Oh.

_Oh_.

Shit.

Novarro was on the phone, saying something that William just couldn't seem to hear. Saporta took one step, then another, across to William's side of the office, like he couldn't help himself. He was still staring. William couldn't remember what he'd been saying. Didn't think it would be possible to distract Saporta right now anyway.

"You," Saporta said, quietly enough that even if Novarro hadn't been talking, he still may not have heard. "You did an internship at Midtown."

William hadn't expected this. Or rather, he had, but he'd expected it a month ago, had thought he was in the clear. Why _should_ Saporta have remembered one more eager young thing? Even if... yes, well. Just one more. He _hadn't_ remembered. Fucking glasses.

"I'm not that kid anymore," William said, looking up and meeting Saporta's gaze.

When Novarro put the phone down, Saporta twitched, as though coming back to life. He turned away and strode back to his own desk. "Whatever this guy needs," he said. "We'll do it, if you think he'll be useful. Nate, what have you got for me?"

*

William had done an internship at Midtown.

It had been the summer before his final year of college; the summer after breakup-the-third following him walking in on Christine making out with her Art History professor in his office; the summer he and Mike had started out enemies and somehow ended up friends. That summer.

He'd realised a lot of things that summer. That he really wanted to make this business thing work, even though he'd only taken this route because it had seemed the sensible thing to do. That maybe he was more in love with Christine than he'd thought. That the whole business with Tom back at school hadn't been a lone aberration, because he really, _really_ wanted a piece of one of the brilliant young partners at Midtown.

Yeah, he knew Gabriel Saporta.

Back then, Gabe had been a dark star, something intense and undefinable, a force of gravity and a radiating energy all at once. He'd been the most desirable thing in any room, and he'd known it. He'd worked his way through the interns like he was conducting research, and William had been fucking eager for his turn.

Late one night in the photocopy room, the machine hot against the small of William's back, air-conditioning rasping his throat as he panted with Gabe's hands on him and that voice like a satin ribbon wrapping around his ear.

Just the once. He'd told Mike, and no one else. He'd gone back to college. He'd made up with Christine. He hadn't really thought about it.

Until he'd walked into the Washington Club and seen him again.

*

Saporta knew Travis. William didn't even know why he was surprised; Saporta knew _everyone_. They'd been so busy catching up they didn't even mind that William was ten minutes late getting to the clubhouse. He'd fought with--

Well, no, it hadn't been a fight, it had more just been her laying into him as he was about to head out the door. Working on weekends, again, which was hardly far because this wasn't strictly speaking _work_. He hadn't done any more than open his mouth to say that when she shook her head, lips pressed together into a thin line. "I know," she'd said. "I know, I know, I fucking know; this is a really big opportunity."

"It is," he'd said. Hadn't know what else to say.

She'd folded her arms over her chest, hunched her shoulders up. "Go. Just _go_."

Saporta looked like he lived on the course, shirt and trousers perfectly elegant, but he didn't have his own set of clubs either. "Fucking heathens," Travis opined, as they negotiated hire and green fees. "Why would I want to do business with either of you, let alone both?"

But William knew they had him anyway. Had known from the moment Travis stood up from his bar stool to great William, the handshake that tugged him into a one-armed hug with a clap on his shoulder. Just a glance at Saporta, leaning one elbow against the bar, smile lazy, told William that he knew it too. The day was just a formality. Just something to be enjoyed.

Easier said than done.

Not that William didn't like golf. He did, though as Travis accurately if obnoxiously pointed out, liking wasn't swinging, and he'd clearly been doing a lot more of one than the other. That was just the prelude to the ubiquitous lesson, but William had even more trouble that usual following Travis's occasionally esoteric advice when Saporta was standing there leaning nonchalantly on his five-iron, absolutely not talking about it.

There hadn't really been a chance to talk about it. William was glad about that. He was. Except surely - _surely_ \- Saporta would have something to say about it, and couldn't they just get it over with already?

Off the seventh-hole tee shot, a freak gust of wind (or so he claimed) left Travis in the bunker beside the green. He climbed down into the sand to examine the lie, and when William, waiting by the flag, turned around, Saporta was at his shoulder. No beating around the bush; William was still hiding his flinch as Saporta was saying, "Why didn't you tell me?"

It seemed a little desperate to wish Saporta wasn't wearing sunglasses. His face wasn't giving anything away, so there was no reason to suppose his eyes would have. William shrugged a shoulder, said, "I assumed you'd forgotten." And why not? Just another intern. Just one more. "It didn't seem important."

An eyebrow lifted above the sunglasses, but Saporta's face remained otherwise impassive. Behind William, Travis grumbled indecipherably in the sandpit, the wind blowing the sound to them if not the precise words. "You said," Saporta said, barely any louder, but closer and William caught every syllable, "you wanted to keep your glasses on because you wanted to see everything. Wanted to see me. I wanted to fuck you so hard it actually took my breath away. But maybe you're right." The tone of his voice didn't change. "It wasn't important. I'm not that guy anymore either."

William didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say.

The corners of Saporta's mouth twitched up. "So let's do this deal."

William felt an answering tug in his own cheek. "This deal's done."

Definitely a smirk now. "Then let's do the next one. Eyes on the prize, William."

William turned away, so he could see how Travis was getting on in the bunker. So he wouldn't be grinning right at Saporta while he laughed.

*

Travis worked out of his own office, only stopping by their basement once or twice a week, mostly unannounced. Half of the rest of the time they had him on the phone, setting it to speaker from either Saporta or William's desk so the both of them could stand before the whiteboard, talking over each other and Travis, leaning over each other's shoulders to redraw their plans of attack.

The cartoon of the burning planeful of snakes was still in the centre of the board. On one of his flying visits, Travis put in an order for one of those t-shirts, if Novarro was getting them made. He also left a three-wood and told William to work on "staying loose". William mostly used the club for poking Gabe from his desk.

With Travis on board, things started really taking shape. He answered all the sustainability questions they'd had and a few they hadn't thought to raise, and with one area solidified, other sectors started firming up as though embarrassed to be lagging behind. Long hours felt better when it seemed like they were leaving progress in their wake, and William lost count of the number of times he called Christine with variants on the theme of, "I'll be a little late, what sort of take-out did you want for dinner?"

But however long he worked, Saporta was there longer, waving with his feet up on the desk when William came in mornings, waving with the phone in his other hand when William left at night, sending William emails from the office (not his blackberry, William could tell) on the weekends.

Leaning over William's shoulder as they went over growth potentials, breath against William's neck as Saporta whispered, "We are so close to getting this together, so fucking close."

William got better eyedrops. He didn't wear his glasses again.

*

He came half-running in the door that night - _that_ night - already pulling the knot of his tie loose. "They're expecting us at half-past, right? Do I have time to change my shirt?" He paused at the counter, leaning forward but with the kiss he'd intended to tap on Christine's cheek on his way past stalled by the look she was giving him. "Shit, am I late?" He jerked his arm out, letting the movement tug his sleeve up so he could see his watch. "It was half-past, wasn't it?"

Christine tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, setting her earring tinkling. She was dressed for the party. "I called and told them we wouldn't make it," she said.

"What?" William let his arm drop, the sleeve sag. "I told you I'd be here in time."

"Bill," she said, "we have to talk."

Oh. He put down his briefcase without looking, as though if he turned away from her she wouldn't be there when he looked back. "Christine--"

"I know," she said, beautiful and brittle, the sparkle to her eyes under the downlights having nothing to do with the make-up gilding her face. "You've been working horrible hours, but it's just a few more weeks, just this project, it'll be over soon; I know. It's such a great opportunity; I know. You're doing this for us, for all the dreams we forged together back at college, the house and the career and the lifestyle; I know. It's just..." She bit her lip, and he wanted to cover her mouth, anything to stop her saying what came next. He didn't move. "I don't want that anymore."

William closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was still there, tears spangling her eyelashes. She was out of reach. "I still do," he said.

She nodded, and sniffed, but the tears didn't fall. "I know."

*

Mike picked up on the fifth ring. "Yeah?"

William curled his other hand around the chain of the swing, curling his legs beneath him, feet trailing in the sand. "I think Christine and I just broke up."

"Again?" Mike was chewing something, didn't bother stopping to talk. "What happened this time?"

"No," William said, slowly and carefully, as though everything might come apart if he moved too suddenly. His mind felt very clear, thinking about how there should be a different term for it, some way to distinguish all the other times - endless iterations of one of them getting drunk and doing, saying, forgetting something stupid - from this cold, crystal certainty that there would be no romantic and frantic reunification a day or a week or a month in the future. "No," William said again. "Not like that."

Silence at the other end of the line. Then Mike said, "I'll be right there."

He called the rest of the guys as well - all of them, not just Siska and Mrotek - and there was beer and bourbon and the game on Mike's big-screen-if-slightly-off-colour television. All William had to do was sit in the middle of it, let it wash over him as he drank steadily towards oblivion.

In the morning, when William came staggering out of the bathroom with his throat scratched by bile and alcohol poisoning, he found Mike waiting with a cup of black coffee and a packet of almonds. William rested his forehead against the edge of the refrigerator (blessedly cool) and said, "Almonds?"

Mike shrugged. "Certain Native American tribes swear by them."

William would have laughed more if his head had been up to it. "Give me the coffee, you freak."

It was only then, with William's eyes closed against the first perfect sip, that Mike said, "I'm sorry, man."

"Yeah," William said, keeping his eyes closed, "me too."

*

He was late enough already that a little more time didn't matter, so he detoured to a menswear store, bought the first shirt that fit properly, changed into it while the clerk rang up the sale. It didn't really match his tie; William didn't really care. He shoved the tie into the store carry bag with his old shirt, and felt somewhat proud of himself for making it to work without having pitched the whole lot into a trashcan along the way.

When he came into the office, Gabe was leaning against the round table, pointing at something on the whiteboard in discussion with Novarro. Both of them looked up, Novarro going back to his notes immediately as Saporta pushed off the table, turning around to face William. "Sorry I'm late," William said. "I was--ah."

"Your mate Carden called," Saporta said. He still had his hands in his pockets, had the whole time, and no trace of a smile on his face. He knew. Mike had said something. Enough. He _knew_, and William felt frozen, felt rusted shut, felt panic and anger beating at his locked-off enclosure where he felt nothing at all. Saporta was watching him. "Do you need a day?"

"No." His voice scratched; William shook his head as well, gently. "I need to work."

"Good." Still no trace of a smile as Saporta jerked his chin towards William's desk. "Because there's a shitload of stuff needs doing. Stump's put us on warning of Pete's imminent arrival again. He'll be down on Monday."

William dropped his carrybag beside his chair, shucked his coat. Wait. "You got an actual day out of him?"

_Now_ Saporta was smirking. "Because I am just that fucking good."

William didn't laugh, didn't even manage much of a smile, but he did rip off the top post-it note, screw it up into a little ball, ping it off the back of Gabe's head as he resumed his spot at the round table.

And he did get some work done. Quite a lot, actually. Before he went home to an apartment that was already missing her toothbrush, her shoes by the door, her workclothes from the closet next to his shirts, her warmth in the bed beside him.

*

William helped her move the rest of her things out on Sunday. "You don't have to," she'd said on the phone. "I can bring someone, I don't want to make you." But he wanted to. It seemed right.

He didn't try to talk her into staying. When they were tugging her old beanbag down from the top cupboard and he reached up just as she said, "Wait, I should--" and turned around into his arms, he didn't hold his ground, didn't drop his arms around her, didn't breathe in against her dusty hair and nibble at her ear. There was no point.

It felt so different from every other break-up they'd had. They hadn't broken up. They were over.

When they finally had it all out of the apartment - all her clothes and books and CDs, the nightstands and the desk and the stupid futon that William had never liked in the first place - when they had it all down and wedged into the van she'd hired for the day, they stood on the kerb awkwardly. William shoved his hands into his pockets, pulled them out again. Said, "You're going to be ok at the other end?"

"Sure," Christine said. "Sue'll be home from yoga. We'll manage."

Silence, kids screaming at play down the block, and then he was pulling her into a hug a moment after she said, "I'm going to miss you so much." Her fingers pressed into his back and he leant his chin against the top of her head for the last time. He'd thought he was going to marry her. Have children, a mortgage, retirement. It had all been in the plan.

"Good luck," he said, as he let her go.

She took a couple of steps back, teetering down off the kerb onto the road. "Hey," she said, a little too brightly, "you too. With your project, and your opportunities, and... everything."

She drove off into the sunset, and William went back inside. He looked at the strange new gaps in the apartment, and poured himself a drink.

Then he started rearranging the furniture.

*

"This guy you've got in," Wentz said on Monday, flipping through the printouts of preliminary specs Novarro had given him.

"Travis McCoy," William provided, since Saporta looked at him.

"Yeah," Wentz said. "Him. He's magic. Nice pick. You are so very nearly there."

William didn't need to look back to Gabe to see his satisfaction tip over into beatitude. He could feel it even across the office, feel the answering smile tugging at his mouth.

"But," Wentz continued, flipping the booklet of printouts closed again, "you're still not quite right. Luckily," he shot William a brilliant grin before turning it on Saporta, "your Uncle Pete is here for you. I know just the woman you need to talk to. I'll set up a lunch this week and be in touch." He was out the door half a minute later, with one last, "Love the tie, Gabe," over his shoulder.

"What do you think about that?" Gabe asked, with the door safely shut again.

"I think his fashion sense is questionable," William declared, and got a swat on the ass in passing with the printout booklet.

"I think I'm god," Gabe said behind him.

William looked up from his desk to meet Novarro's gaze, grinned as the assistant rolled his eyes and went back to what he'd been doing.

"Hey," Gabe said, closer now, and there was movement in the corner of William's vision, so he wasn't entirely unprepared when a hand slipped onto his shoulder, casual weight and a gentle squeeze through his jacket. "How are you doing, anyway?"

Nothing at all, Gabe had probably touched him like that a dozen times, except it felt painted upon him, leeching through his skin. "Fine," William answered, stacking some papers before looking over his shoulder, turning just enough that Saporta's hand fell away.

"Fine," Gabe echoed, eyebrow lifting.

"Managing," William corrected, with the ghost of a smile.

*

Lunch on Thursday was at the Washington Club, party of four - William and Saporta and Wentz and Maja Ivarsson. They were there before her, seated and arguing about property speculation. Wentz was seated facing the door, and when he bobbed back to his feet, William and Saporta followed suit, William turning to look over his shoulder.

"Wow." Saporta said it, almost under his breath, but William thought it. Ms Ivarsson wasn't big - barely taller than Wentz in four-inch heels and thin as a coiled spring - but she took over the room, a blatant occupation by perfect platinum hair and a haughty expression and the most professional leather jacket William had ever seen. Her hand, when he shook it, was slim and strong; she met his gaze and summed him up in that instant, before turning to Saporta.

"I'm starving," she declared. "Let's order." And barely moments after the final menu had been taken away by the discreet waitstaff, she said, "I looked over your specifications." One gunmetal-grey fingernail tapped its perfect point against the tablecloth. "Talk to me about the difference between gross and net."

William had sat exams that were less stressful than that lunch was. And none of his examiners had ever shrugged their coat off halfway through, revealing a shirt unbuttoned just enough to gape over very nice cleavage. With Ms Ivarsson, somehow ogling seemed a little like taking his life in his hands. Saporta, not unexpectedly, either didn't feel the same or liked the danger. William kicked his ankle under the table, and returned a pointed look to his innocent eyes.

When she finally said, "I think we can do business; I'll have my recommendations to you by this time next week," the relief was like a knife slicing through the knots that had held William tight. He was suddenly aware of the two glasses of wine he'd drunk softening the edges of things. He was aware of the faintest buzz beneath his skin.

It was still there when they got back to the building, taking their leave of Wentz in the lobby. Still there as they descended the stairs to sub-level one, Gabe saying, "He's right; she's sharp; she's just what we need." Still there when Gabe started to pull the door at the bottom of the stairs open and William's palm hit it, pushing it closed again.

"What?" Gabe said, turning to face William fully, fingers still wrapped around the door handle.

"You think she's hot," William stated, coming down the final step.

"Are you blind?" Gabe smirked, not stepping back. "She _is_ hot."

"Incredibly hot," William agreed. "Those _legs_." The buzz was still in his veins, becoming recognisable now as he leaned forward to ask, "Do you want to fuck her?"

"Do you?" Gabe shot back, eyebrows up and smirk twisting and still not stepping back. "Rebounding, William?"

"Yes," William admitted. No, more than admitted. He _embraced_ it. "I am. But not with her."

He was staring right at him, close enough that he could feel the air move against his face when Gabe sucked in a sudden, quick breath. The shift in his expression was tiny, but the thrill of that regard, that _intent_, was everything William remembered it being and more. He wasn't that kid anymore. He didn't wait to see what came next, just leaned in, reaching up to cradle Gabe's jaw, to hold him in place.

Unnecessarily; Gabe didn't turn away, didn't even flinch. Just opened his mouth and let William kiss him, slow and thorough but also shallow and just _letting him_. William fisted his hands around the lapels of Gabe's suit, shoved him back a bit, but he only got as far as, "Don't you even--" before Gabe's hand around the back of his neck pulled him back in. His sentence ended in Gabe's mouth, eager now, head tilted and fingers pressing behind his ear, urging. William tugged at his lapels, edging closer.

And something juddered against his chest; a moment later the trill of a phone grated across his nerves, echoed off cement, made them both flinch. In the space suddenly between them, Gabe reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out his blackberry. He looked at the screen with his other hand still resting its knuckles against William's neck, dropping away in the next moment as he said, "Shit," and yanked the door open. "What?" he hollered out into the basement.

The phone stopped ringing. From down the corridor, Novarro's voice called, "Korea only have six hours before statute."

"Shit," Gabe said again. "I thought we had until the fourteenth."

"It _is_ the fourteenth in Korea," William pointed out, and ducked past him out of the stairwell.

Novarro looked up as he came in. "How is she?" he asked.

It took William a moment. "Perfect," he answered.

*

Novarro left at three past six, like usual. Saporta was still on the phone with someone in Korea, long pauses interspersed with lengthy, muted sentences. William found himself dawdling over the document he was redrafting, really finished but loath to pack up, to sneak out while Saporta couldn't say anything. He dithered, was only just shrugging into his coat when Saporta hung up the phone, hurled his pen into his in-tray, rubbed at his face.

"No go?" William asked.

Gabe tilted way back in his chair, sliding down and looking up at William upside-down. "They're sending an updated proposal. Another forty-eight hours. Still won't be feasible, but maybe I can renegotiate further once Ivarsson comes through."

He levered himself to his feet, and now William felt a perverse desire to be gone already. "Well, if anyone can," he said, non-commital and taking up his briefcase.

Gabe met him at the door though, hands in pockets and eyes serious. He wasn't blocking the way, but William stopped anyway. "William," Gabe said, "what happened this afternoon?"

William thought he could say, _Nothing_. He thought he could kiss Gabe again, kiss him until he gave in again, push him back onto the round table, against the whiteboard, smear all their plans into the back of his suit jacket.

He stood frozen, didn't say or do a thing.

"I meant it," Gabe said, after a moment. "I'm not that guy anymore. I don't just fuck people in the office."

"We don't have a photocopy machine anyway," William said, meaning it to be flippant, but he was looking right into Gabe's face, into his eyes, and he'd blame that for adding, "I'd take you back to mine, but frankly I'm not quite that far along yet."

It hung between them; William looked away, looked at the door, reached for it.

And Gabe's hand came out, not to push it closed again, but to land on William's, fingers over his on the handle. William looked up.

One corner of Gabe's mouth quirked up as he said, "My place is closer anyway."

*

Gabe lived in the city itself, close enough that they just walked, getting pizza that they ate on the way, talking work between declarations that they weren't going to. It was just far enough that William was finished by the time they arrived; Gabe wedged the last of his pizza into his mouth so he could use both hands to unfasten his deadbolt.

The place was impressive - polished wood floors, open plan, floor to (not low at all) ceiling windows looking out over the city and the water beyond. William dropped his briefcase in an armchair, took in the view while the dark in the apartment allowed it.

When the lights came on behind him, William turned around. Gabe was staring at him, briefcase and jacket on one of the chairs of the dining suite, loosening his tie.

"What?" William asked.

Gabe shook his head. "This isn't how I imagined this happening."

William stalked across the apartment. He recognised the gait from the first step, remembered Christine saying, "When you're going into something - a meeting, a presentation - and you've talked yourself into knocking them dead, you just - God." She'd bitten his lip then, in his lap and wrapped around him, and the memory didn't actually hurt as much as he'd expected. Gabe had mentioned it too. _Your whole posture changes when you give orders._

He didn't brace a hand against the wall over Gabe's shoulder, just came a step too close, leaned in a little too far. "How did you imagine it?" he asked. "Am I supposed to be drunk? Pliable? Begging for it?" He watched Gabe watching his mouth shape the words.

"You're--" Gabe said, leaning forward, and William leant back. Gabe stopped, laughed, and then whatever he'd been going to say was forgotten as he grabbed William's forearms just below the elbows and jerked him forwards into a hard kiss.

It crumbled quickly, smearing into Gabe's tongue against his, all grease and the lingering taste of onions and tomato sauce. William tugged against his grip, wanting to pull Gabe's shirt loose, get his hands on skin. Gabe let him, let him go to run his hands down his lapels, unfasten William's jacket, push it off his shoulders. After that it was fumbling at shirt buttons, the slip and slide of saliva, the bump and press of Gabe edging William backwards until the dining table nudged just beneath his ass. Gabe's hands dropped, urging William's hips up. He went with it, sliding up onto the table with Gabe pressing after him, chasing the kiss, stepping between his spread knees. William leaned back, Gabe over him, letting his shirt fall down his arm braced behind him, pooling around the still-fastened cuff.

"Tell me," Gabe whispered, biting it into William's bottom lip. "Tell me what you want."

He had one hand curled around the back of William's neck, holding him steady; the other, William grabbed at the wrist, all but pushing it down his trousers. "This," he panted.

*

William joined Gabe in the shower, kissing him warm and wet under the spray, smearing their handprints over the glass door, hissing at cold tiles against overheated skin. He came again, lazily, with the taste of Gabe's clean skin between his teeth.

Gabe leaned against the doorway, towel slung around his neck, watching William tying his shoelaces. "You can stay, you know," he said. As William looked up, he added, "If you want."

William thought buying one new shirt a month was about his limit; he thought maybe he could borrow one of Gabe's, a ridiculous tie to match; he thought about sleeping next to someone who wasn't soft, blonde, snoring delicately in his ear as he couldn't sleep for grinning. He looked up, hands stilling on his laces. "How long were you at Midtown?"

"Six years," Gabe said, without a moment's hesitation. "More or less."

William nodded, finished the double knot and stood up. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm not that far along yet either."

Gabe turned back into the bathroom and didn't see him out, but he also nodded, and smiled, and didn't say another word.

*

_and i know exactly what i'm doing,  
sometimes_

*

One week, four days and sixteen hours after William left his apartment with a bitemark blossoming under the open collar of his shirt, Gabe made his final pitch to the assembled board. William spent the afternoon in the sports bar, working his way through the first pitcher of beer and throwing insults (and the occasional peanut) at the television. He draped his jacket over the next chair at the table, folded his tie up and shoved it into the pocket, rolled his sleeves up to just below the elbow.

Travis showed up after an hour, throwing his courier bag on William's coat chair. "Who's winning?" he asked, peering up at the screen, and not waiting for William (with a mouthful of beer) to do anything other than point before he followed up with, "Our boy not here?"

"Not yet," William managed, and poured another glass as Travis gestured for more peanuts.

Maja arrived twenty minutes later, in the shortest pinstripe suit William had ever seen. He performed introductions; Travis poured her a beer from their second pitcher; she ordered a double vodka with lime to chase it.

She was halfway through it when a voice behind William said, "Isn't he fucking here yet?"

William said, "Aren't you supposed to be at work, Siska?" without turning around.

Mike leaned over his shoulder and stole a handful of peanuts. "The boss is a total softie," he said, grinning. "I'll get another pitcher, shall I?"

It was good to have the distraction around him, at the same time as it was driving him crazy. William looked over at every flicker of movement in the doorway. He hadn't felt like this since college; three months of his life were being validated elsewhere, and he was waiting for the results. Except that wasn't quite right. He'd still have a place, one way or another. He'd go back to his team (Siska throwing peanuts across the table into Mrotek's wide mouth as Mike counted out loud) tomorrow morning and resume his old job, his old projects. His old plan? Even if Saporta's pitch was shot down in flames, the past three months netting William no credit in the firm, he'd not be that far off his plans.

Except that Saporta would be out. Maybe even finished.

"You're fidgeting," Travis said, beside his ear, and William stilled his jiggling knee by standing up.

"Gotta piss," he said, and headed away before Travis could be sarcastic or, even worse, wise.

If Saporta wasn't out, then he was in. In the firm, given hiring privileges for and responsibility over his own term. There every day, alongside William.

He still wasn't sure quite how he felt about that. He told himself he'd know when the news came through, one way or another.

William was on his way back from the men's room when he saw, through the burgeoning crowd, Novarro at their table, stripping off his business shirt to raucous applause to reveal a t-shirt printed with the snake-endowed burning airplane. Siska wolf-whistled, and William stopped dead, turned, searched the bar.

Finally spotted Saporta at the bar itself, a line of four milkshake-size glasses in front of him with the bartender pouring something bright blue into one after another. Gabe caught William's eye, and the smile on his face _bloomed_, went supernova. He did something weird with his hands, some gesture that William didn't even comprehend but paired with that grin, with the incandescent satisfaction streaming out of Gabe like radiowaves, it could only mean one thing.

Yes.

William felt the smile on his face as it began to turn into an answering grin; felt it and let it happen, as he started threading back towards the bar.

He didn't know what this was going to be, he realised, but perhaps he didn't have to plan for everything.


End file.
